Conquer the World
by eclaire291
Summary: So two countries walk into a bar…This is one joke the bartender isn't laughing at as he scramble to hide any breakables from sight and, more importantly, Denmark's axe. A collection of drabbles showcasing barroom interactions. Various characters.


**Conquer the World**

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Title: Whiskey Reunion  
Characters/Pairings: The British Isles (England, Wales, Ireland, N. Ireland, and Scotland) and America  
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own the _Hetalia _franchise. If I did I'd actually have money, I probably wouldn't spend my time writing fanfiction, and America and England would stop being such tsunderes and just admit that they can't live without one another.

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**1. Whiskey Reunion**

_"I drink only to make my friends seem interesting." -Don Marquis_

It was Saturday night and, after a three-day world summit, England wanted nothing more than to find a pub and get smashed. After watching America suffer more than a few snide comments on his healthcare reform plan from China, France, and Russia; England had taken pity on him and grudgingly invited him along. They had driven aimlessly through the United Kingdom until they weren't sure where they were. It had been good fun but now they were attempting to find a pub that England approved of.

"Come on. I'm sick of walking around. If none of these bars are up to your standards, then can we just find a McDonald's so I can at least get something to eat?" America asked, rubbing his stomach in an attempt to quell its hungry grumbling.

England sighed at America's impatience. They turned to corner and England nodded to a bar down the street called The Golden Pit. "That one looks promising."

"Sure, whatever," America said. He ducked behind England and put his hands on England's back to force him down the street before he could change his mind. They walked in the door and were greeted by a dim bar lit by neon and walls lined with photos of a rolling green countryside, herds of sheep, limestone cliffs, a crowded fish market. America grinned. They must be in Ireland. England had never invited America to that part of Europe before. He had always found excuses around it. Luckily for America, they had stumbled into the area without England knowing tonight.

"Oh, bollocks," England swore suddenly, turning on his heel and attempting to leave.

"What? Is it the neon shamrocks on the walls?" America asked, his hand coming down on England's shoulder to keep him from leaving. "You know, you shouldn't be so picky about what bar we go to, England. They all serve the same drinks."

"Keep your voice bloody well down!" England hissed. He glanced furtively over America's shoulder, his gaze falling on a group sitting at the bar. "Don't let them see me."

"Them?" America followed England's gaze curiously. "Who?" England made a choking noise that may have been a whimper and moved toward the door again. Impatient, America tightened his grip on England's shoulder and tried to force him past the threshold. "Stop being so stubborn, old man. I'm not walking another five or so blocks to the next bar just because you recognize someone at this one." England didn't take this assertion well. The resulting struggle was enough to draw the attention of one of the men sitting at the bar. The man glanced over his shoulder and broke out in a wide grin, jumping off his bar stool and practically sprinting over to where England was currently trying to use his foot as leverage to throw America off him.

"Well, hell, Artie. I never thought I'd see you in a place like this," the heavily freckled man exclaimed, clapping England on the shoulder and sending him staggering. England muttered something unintelligible under his breath and sent America a withering glare. Before anything more could be said, the man was dragging them both over to the bar and calling to the three others, "Look at the sorry bloke who showed up to share a pint with us."

Three heads turned, and America was certain he saw England start to sweat.

"North, what are you going on about now?" asked a redheaded woman who looked strikingly similar to the man who had usurped England. Her eyes fell on England and suddenly she had abandoned her bar stool as well. However, instead of greeting England with delight, she attacked him viciously, punching and kicking England anywhere she could reach, all the while shouting curses in a language America didn't recognize. America was so startled he didn't even try to get England out of harm's way. Luckily the two remaining men at the bar jumped into action, pulling her off England.

"Are you daft, woman?" North demanded.

The woman swiped a knuckle across her bottom lip which had somehow split during the altercation and frowned. "It's bad enough that I'm being forced to share drinks with you, brother dearest. To ask me to look at that gowl's face all night…"

"Then I'll bloody well leave. I didn't want to be here anyway," England said stiffly, with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Uh, what exactly is going on here?" America asked, pulling himself out of his dazed amazement at seeing England having his ass handed to him by a girl.

The two men holding back the woman suddenly laughed. One of them was holding a cigar in his free hand and puffed at it briefly before meeting America's eyes. "Ye're America, aren't ye? Ah knew ye were no great shakes at foreign affairs but tae think ye wouldn't recognize England's own kin."

"Kin?" America faltered, glancing swiftly between England and the four people before him. But then he looked—really looked—and his eyes fell on the outrageously thick eyebrows that were exactly like England's gracing the brows of all in the group. _Oh, man,_ he thought. _No way!_

England sighed and relented: "Well, I might as well introduce you while we're here. America, these are my siblings. This is Northern Ireland—" he indicated the freckled man.

"Call me North," he said, breaking into a grin. Before England could continue, North jabbed a thumb in the direction of the woman and said: "She's South. Or the Republic of Ireland. Or just 'North's sister' if you're trying to annoy her, which isn't too difficult."

"Shut your gob!" South shouted, grabbing her glass of whiskey from the bar. "You're not even a real country," she said snidely to North before downing her drink.

"Er, right. And the man in the green jumper is Wales—" England said.

A shorter man with dark curly hair and laughing gray eyes waved cheerily. The man with the cigar ducked out from under Wales' arm and clamped the cigar between his teeth, a smirk pulling at the side of his mouth. He thrust a hand out at America and drawled, "I'm nae waiting for mah wee brother tae introduce me. I'm Scotland. Always a pleasure tae meet another country wha managed tae wriggle free from under mah brother's boot."

"Y'know, Scot, you talk tough for a guy who wears a skirt," South chuckled.

The smirk tightened and Scotland whipped his head around to glare at her. "Kilt! It's a kilt. A traditional symbol of—"

"Blah blah blah. Sure, and I guess you'll say eating sheep's innards cooked in its own stomach is tradition too. Sorry if I don't take that seriously," she said. She sat back on her bar stool and gestured for the bartender to get her another drink. "Well, if we're having this family reunion, sit your arses down and liquor up."

Sighs and mutters filled the bar as the (mostly) British nations yielded and sat down at the bar to call for drinks. North finished off his own Irish whiskey and gestured for another. Scotland ordered a neat whiskey. Wales and America ordered beers. England usually got whiskey so America was puzzled when he ordered cider instead. Perhaps it was an attempt to set him apart from his siblings who seemed to be favoring whiskey. A strained sort of silence fell over the bar as they sipped their drinks. Not used to sitting in silence for long, America cleared his throat and said, "The drinks are pretty awesome here."

"It's an Irish pub," North said simply as if that explained it.

South wrapped her fingers around her glass and grinned. "I don't know why other places try. If you're not in an Irish pub, it isn't worth it."

"Indeed. The Irish are so proud of their pubs, in fact, that they have graced their language with 140 words for 'drunk,'" England muttered into his glass.

"One hundred and forty-one words, and I'd thank you to remember it," South said. "Not that you could seeing as you're such a lightweight."

England sloshed his drink as he turned sharply to shoot her his best _shut-up-and-sod-off_ glare that America knew far too well. She didn't even seem fazed by it though and only threw back her glass of whiskey and ordered another. America sipped at his barely touched beer, far too interested in the interactions between the siblings than to let alcohol addle his senses. In fact, he was the only one still on his first drink. North and South were racing toward their fifth Irish whiskeys, Wales was on his third beer, and Scotland was finishing off his fourth or fifth whiskey. England was just as bad. He was currently in the process of throwing back his third pint of cider and seemed more than eager to order another.

Unlike his siblings, though, England seemed to be the only one affected by the alcohol. North and Wales were grinning brightly. South was glaring steadily, equally gracing both England and North with her anger. Scotland seemed to be enjoying himself, watching the situation unfold with an easy smirk as if it were the most amusing thing he'd ever seen. England was hiccupping into his drink, and America could practically feel a religious debate brewing with every sip England took. America tensed. He may not have recognized England's siblings, but he had paid enough attention at world summits to know that religious tensions were high between North and South. To bring religion up here was asking for a fight, and, as amusing it would be to see England get beat by a woman, America didn't want to drag a bruised and drunken England back to the car.

Grasping at straws, America burst out, "So what was it like growing up with England?" In hindsight it was a dumb question. He probably would have been better off opening a religious debate if the looks on the siblings' faces were anything to go by.

"He's was a right pain in the arse," Scotland said over the rim of his drink. "Always was. Even when he was a wee tyke. He tried tae take over mah country. Twice. Bloody bastard."

"I like England!" Wales spoke up cheerfully.

"He tried tae take over yer country too, mind," Scotland said. "Don't ye remember the Laws in Wales Acts?"

"Well…" Wales faltered and took another sip of his beer.

England followed Wales' lead and seemed to be downing his drinks with renewed vigor, his face growing red at his siblings' criticism. He slammed his empty pint down on the bar and called for another, taking a pull of it as soon as it was placed in his hand. America felt a bit sorry for him but, still, it was interesting hearing these stories. Plus, it was a nice change from having Canada bitching to England about America's antics.

"England left me to starve during the potato famine," South said, her eyes narrowing. North didn't say anything but his smile seemed somewhat more lukewarm than before. Apparently that past event still haunted him as well. America allowed himself to reflect on the Revolutionary War for a brief moment but quickly suppressed the memory. He wasn't even drunk. There was no way he was going to agonize over the past, especially not here.

South was undeterred though. Albeit more sober than England usually was when speaking of the past, she continued with determined vigor: "Never was one for familial ties though. And truth be told, I was glad to be rid of you lot. You can go ahead and bicker with each other day in and day out while you try sorting the affairs of the United Kingdom. I'm fine to sort my own affairs."

"Ye're a pain in the arse too, South. So shut up," Scotland said.

"Don't make me bring up the First World War, Scot," South warned, her mouth stretching into a mockingly sweet smile.

Putting his foot in his mouth once again, America unwisely said the first thing that same to mind, "What happened in World War I?"

England had sat up at this as well and was gesturing vigorously at South with what seemed to be an attempt to make her stop talking but ended up looking like he was trying to swim in the air. North was smiling again and shaking his head. Wales was looking politely interested in hearing the story and was watching South attentively. South grinned evilly at Scotland who had leapt from his stool and thrown himself at South, trying to cover her mouth with his hand. She struggled with his hands, deftly avoiding his attempts to silence her. "Well, England and he…" Now England was on his feet too, trying to help Scotland. He ended up tripping over his own feet though and accidently tackled Wales to the ground. Wales yelled in surprise and fought to pull himself out from under England's weight.

South saw her chance and blurted out: "Scotland helped out England on the front during the war. It was the first time Scotland had been on good terms with England in a while. They got pretty chummy. Caught them hugging once."

North burst out laughing while England looked mortified. "We were not…_hugging_," Scotland said, spitting out the last word as if it were toxic. His teeth were nearly biting a hole in the cigar still in his mouth. America chuckled.

"How come you never hug me, Scot?" Wales asked with a bit of a pout evident in his voice.

Scotland thought Wales was mocking him and snapped irritably: "Piss off. At least ah don't have an inappropriate relationship with leeks."

Wales's eyes widened. "I don't. Leeks are just delicious and…"

"You are pretty obsessive," North conceded. South laughed and nodded in agreement.

The End.

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_Author's Notes_

_So I hope you enjoyed the first addition to this collection. It was fairly plot-free, but I hope it was entertaining nonetheless. There are regrettably only a few historical facts mentioned in the above story. I plan on focusing more on historical aspects in my next Hetalia story._

_Feel free to suggest more ideas for this collection. I'd be more than happy to write any character/pairing, time period, or event._

_Next up: Sweden and Denmark_


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